A Series of Flawed Theories
by Katherine
Summary: In which the Riddler overreacts, the clown must die, and Scarecrow actually tries to help. ...Maybe.
1. Chapter 1

AN; Any opinions are not my own (they actually might not even be the character's own, with these two). Swearing, implied murder, taunting, madness, general manipulation, and very shaky moral ground ahead; so, the usual. No one belongs to me, nor do their hypothetical toxins or awesome iconic canes.

... ... ... ...

Most residents of Gotham City knew better than to pay much attention to other people's business, and only the completely foolish would be silly enough to casually look into windows while scurrying through dangerous areas of the city. Had anyone the inclination toward being particularly suicidal on the night in question, they may have peeked through a crack in the blinds of a dimly lit apartment in a moderately decrepit brick building; old and worn as most of that part of Gotham, but not yet unserviceable for human occupation. Certainly, they would have seen a rather interesting display unfolding, but in all likelihood would have (one way or another) had the natural habit of keeping their eyes on the sidewalk reinforced.

A man clad in green, clearly mad with frustration, was pacing as he spoke and sputtered in turn. The cadence of his words, though, remained quick enough to assure anyone listening that he was most definitely unhinged. His pitch and tone had been alternating in a swift and fascinating cycle from low growls to what an observer would be forgiven for assuming was something only dolphins could hear.

Another man, painfully thin for his tall frame and generally disheveled in appearance, sat with his long arms crossed and watched with an expression of supreme boredom. The shorter man continued on obliviously, the cane in his hands waving as though to emphasize his words.

"-but this time, this time he's too far, way too far. What am I saying? He's the definition of too far, always has been. Over and over and over! Not after this, no, no way, I'm done, and I've got him. I swear, I've got him – or at the very least, three of his limbs... I figured it out, it's all set up. I might be able to use your help. I know the toxin doesn't work on him, but listen! It has to be precise, detailed, and I think I can trust you with it. I believe that if we time everything perfectly, you can get the right-"

Jonathan watched Edward pace back and forth, practically wearing a hole in the carpet as he spoke. Crane might have cared, but it wasn't his carpet. Then again, he probably still wouldn't have cared. The old man who had lived in the usurped run-down apartment had been a terrible test subject; one of Scarecrow's worst. He might have expected it, but a heart attack occurring less than a minute after injection was a new record. He shook his head. At least the man had been surly enough that none of the other occupants of the building were concerned with his disappearance.

And now… this. A raving Riddler in his work room had definitely not been on his list of goals for the day. Crane had not made such a list, of course, but _had_ he made one, Edward would not have been involved.

Only a half of an hour previous to his current situation, Crane had been working at a folding table in the living room. The table was a bit rickety, but it served. It was very nearly level, even, once Jonathan had propped one of the legs up with a magazine.

His notebooks, some 'borrowed' chemistry texts, psychology periodicals, reference guides, various writing implements, Pyrex and vials marked in color coded labels, and a few novels had quickly cluttered the workspace (and every surrounding surface). So what if it may have spilled off into small piles on the floor? As long as he could find the paper or item he needed, untidiness was low on Scarecrow's list of concerns.

He had gone through the last resident's mail, checking if he had any social connections that might cause a problem. Jonathan had only came up with junk, coupons, and a few utility bills. Unsurprised, he had pushed it all off to a pile in the corner of the table.

He'd been concentrating on his recently failed experiment, scribbling notes in a journal propped haphazardly upon the well-worn table, while examining several small glass vials. Was it possible the batch was actually _too_ strong? He needed a subject; a healthy subject. Definitely not an old man. That had been so disappointing; all he'd conclusively learned was that the subject had a weak heart, and Scarecrow hated to waste resources.

Crane had been absorbed with his thoughts of neurochemistry, the nervous system, and terror; nothing unusual for him, but things had been... hectic, as of late. At least he could finally concentrate and make some useful notations about his concoction. It only made sense that the Universe would find it amusing to pester him at that exact moment. Naturally, Crane was wrenched from his work by a rapping at the front door.

Startled, he quickly forced himself to relax. He'd only been there a few days, and he doubted anyone was actively looking for him... well, at that precise time, anyway. He'd been too busy with this formula to make his presence _widely_ known for at least three weeks, and with the recent breakout and most of Arkham on the loose... The Bat and Birdie-boy were probably occupied elsewhere.

Out of habit, he recited, "'Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, only this and nothing more." It wasn't as if the Batman _knocked_.

The rapping quickly increased to fervent knocking. "Hey! Hey, Jon! I need to talk to you, business, let me in! I know you're here. JON! Hey! Let me in! You reclusive praying mantis! I need to talk to you, damn it! Jonny!" the door was then pounded in time with the syllables, "JON-A-THAN!"

Edward. Subtle, as always... Of _course_ he would have already learned of Crane's change of address. For all his intelligence, though, the young man seemed to have no concern about showing up in front of Crane's door and _shouting_ his name loudly enough to disturb the neighbors, all the while wearing a glaringly bright suit covered in _question marks_. He should have never opened the door.

Maybe he could have opened it a crack, leaving the chain on, and sprayed the manic nuisance full in the face with one of his weaker batches of toxin. The noise he'd cause couldn't be any louder than the Riddler was already making. Crane smiled, but discarded the thought. No door opening shall be done at all, he concluded.

His recently acquired neighbors would not even peek outside. It was easy to assume anyone with that level of enthusiasm for seeing another person in this area was a junkie asking for money, or even visiting a dealer. Jonathan didn't like the idea of that label being applied to him, but it was certainly not rare. Indeed, it was a great deal less problematic than the occupants of the surrounding units knowing they were neighbors with the Scarecrow.

-**SLAM SLAM SLAM**-

Was he...? The Riddler was actually beating his door with that stupid cane of his! The maddening little brat! Nothing else the man carried on his person would make a sound like that! No. This had to stop, so he would stop it. Jonathan scowled as he stood and made his way to the door, which he was certain would have question mark shaped indentations in it by now, with the force the 'genius' was using.

Maybe it was actually important. It wouldn't be, he thought, but he entertained the possibility that it _could_ be. If he wasn't still trying to keep under Batman's radar, he would have pushed the pest's buttons a bit by calling out, "Who is this?"

Edward hated that. Unfortunately, he also responded to it with loud, long-winded speeches consisting not only of his name, but various ridiculous titles and monikers he'd taken on. 'Prince of Puzzles', indeed. Crane didn't need that in the hallway right now. Or ever, really, _anywhere_.

Jonathan hesitated before opening the door. He had known that he shouldn't open the door, even before opening the door. _He had still opened the damned door_. There would be time to chastise himself later. Right then, he had to deal with this intrusion and shut Nygma up.

Scarecrow opened the door fast, and in a fluid motion he caught the ginger man's cane mid-swing, using his surprise to wrench it from his hands. It wasn't very different than working with his scythe, though the cane was shorter. A random part of his mind supplied, "Freud would have something to say on that." Jonathan ignored it.

"_What is **wrong** with you?!_" Crane hissed, holding tight to the offending cane.

Riddler huffed indignantly but didn't reply. He made a failed snatch for his makeshift door knocker, which Crane then held above his head while giving the maniac a smug look. Edward made one jump for his cane, missed the mark by at least a foot, and growled. Visibly taking a deep breath and shaking off his irritation, he strode into the apartment, closing the door behind him. He graced his friend with a nod while still obviously glaring at the tall man, muttering what Crane suspected was an anagramic insult under his breath. The Riddler curled his lip at the mess around Jonathan's workspace, but his eyes moved on swiftly.

Stepping back theatrically, Jonathan smirked tauntingly at Edward. He casually leaned on the other man's cane with both spindly hands in an imitation of the Riddler's posture. The smaller man's left eye actually gave a convulsive twitch. Jonathan considered snatching his hat, as well, but decided against it. The whining would be unbearable. Sarcastic politeness dripped from his voice as he said, "Please, by all means, step into my parlor." Edward was not amused. Jonathan decided to keep that going. He did an uncanny impression of the man standing in front of him as he asked, "Riddle _me_ this; does this _business_ of yours include not only _assaulting_ my door, but also screaming loudly enough to wake the neighborhood _and_ bring a giant _**Bat**_ down on us?"

As soon as he saw the gleam in Edward's eye, he regretted asking. Perhaps he could knock Nygma out with his own cane before he started? Crane mused. That would be almost enough retribution for disturbing him, and he did like the irony...

"Not at all!" No such luck. Of course not. He and luck had been on the outs since his conception. In less than a second, the Riddler's expression changed from indignant to defiantly determined as he launched into an unreasonably excited speech. Jonathan had trouble following said speech, but it seemed to him that anything the other man found so exciting must have been unreasonable.

Nygma was more manic than he usually would be when he had a plan, and that was saying something. From what Jonathan could piece together, it seemed that the Joker had been amusing himself with stalking Edward's hideouts, stealing the clues left around the city, and generally making a gigantic, giggling nuisance of himself.

That was hardly new. When the Joker was bored with blowing things up, it was understood someone was going to be tortured in one way or another. It seemed the Joker was clever enough to target the Riddler's pride. When Edward found that the clown had unlocked all the doors in two perfectly crafted deathtraps, the Riddler had snapped.

Edward hadn't called his charade of tests deathtraps, but Jonathan, better than the rest of Gotham, knew it was not an inappropriate term. Putting mere humans in a situation where their lives were on the line generally caused panic. Crane understood _exactly_ how much that level of fear usually crippled minds; Edward was, by definition, _cheating_. He had never bothered to voice that opinion to the Riddler; it would be a waste of breath. Nygma's own fears ensured he wouldn't have accepted the idea, as obvious and simple as it was. Besides, for the most part, Jonathan approved of the hobby. Edward's love of playing bat-bait had allowed Crane to get away with more than one villainous activity entirely unnoticed.

Edward gesticulated furiously, unconscious of Crane's growing amusement, while explaining that he had spent weeks on the clues for the Bat, the questions, finding the right people... His clues were fucking _gone_ and the people walked right out the damned door!

At this point he managed to snatch back his cane, which Jonathan had been absently twirling between his hands. "Give that back before you hurt yourself! You're lucky you didn't trigger something, you know!" Without missing a beat, he went on as if there had been no interruption. "He hacked my speaker system and yelled filthy jokes about me through it! The idiots were already a block away, but I could hear them laughing! If they had any idea what I could have- what I _will_-"

Jonathan made a Herculean effort not to smirk. He failed. Had Nygma actually taken a breath at all during this outburst? It didn't really matter, Crane decided; he had finally gotten bored and retreated to his seat at the work table.

He understood his friend's frustration. He hated the Joker. Nearly everyone hated the Joker. But, the Joker was the Joker and he did what he did. The Scarecrow was just happy the demented man was bothering someone else and not planting C4 under another of Jonathan's labs. The man occasionally even bought toxin from Crane, for the love of...! He really didn't know or care what Joker ever did with it; he paid well enough, and Crane only sold his poorer batches.

All the same, _why_? Why would he blow up the lab?! Well, obviously he did these things because _he was the Joker_.

That was the answer, the only one Jonathan could ever find; "Because Joker." Crane had learned the hard way that when a question had _that_ answer, it was best to leave it alone.

Apparently, Edward didn't want to play anymore.

... ... ...

AN; It can seem Nygma isn't given enough credit at times in stories. After having Crane rattle around in my head for a while, I sort of understand it now. *laugh* It's not really that he's being written as unintelligent; it's just the force of his personality overshadows it in some chapters. It's nearly impossible not to write him that way in a humor fiction. (Just to clarify, the only reason I chose to make Edward younger than Jonathan is that he was first shown around 1948, and Scarecrow appeared in 1941. It doesn't really matter.) Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

AN; While_ I _consider this to be mostly humor, please be warned that it's still humor that takes place largely in **_Crane's_** head! That can't be everyone's idea of 'haha-funny'. This is actually my version of a practically light-hearted, friendly Crane. I can't imagine it gets too much better on a day by day basis, Molly and a few other examples aside. Anyway, some grisly imagery can be expected.

... ... ...

It would have been funny. Jonathan admitted to himself that it was still kind of funny. Presently, however, he was listening to Edward - actually listening - and it wasn't good. Oh, the plan, from what he'd been able to understand of it, at least... sounded good. But Edward, Joker, this, all this... wasn't good. It wasn't good _at all_; it could work.

Of course, it _would __**not**_ work, but it _could_. And when it failed, Joker would see Edward had been... _Serious_.

He gave Nygma credit where it was due (although never out loud), but this simply... wasn't good. He had to get Edward back in his properly wrong right mind. Steeling himself for a fight, he interrupted the Riddler.

"Edward," Jonathan said. Simply the man's name. He said it very calmly and very quietly, with no effort to hide the terse edge belying his peaceful demeanor. That, as anyone would realize, was what spelled 'Danger'. It spelled 'Danger' in red flashing neon, perhaps with sparks. Crane also knew that Edward knew that danger very well by now. And he knew Edward knew he knew it. Jonathan had easily gleaned that 'Interruption' was surely one of the highest offenses on Nygma's List of Things by Which He Was Offended.

Nygma's list of neatly arranged offenses might stretch more than three city blocks if type-written, Jonathan supposed. Crane, himself, pragmatically crammed them all under the category of "Disrespect"; it felt more practical. He also considered a quick injection to be a much more practical punishment for the infraction than Edward's schemes. Alas, the Riddler simply didn't understand the beauty of that simplicity; the wonder of that most _primal_ emotion.

Scarecrow didn't, at the moment, find an offended Riddler amusing. Edward's diatribe had been cliché and irritating, but then it just _had_ to suddenly turn right around into a _Problem_. From Crane's objective perspective, though, it was the first time a diatribe Nygma started on was truly worth noting.

Perhaps tonight wasn't a diatribe night. A rant? Maybe it was a manifesto, or proclamation, or speech. It could well be a lecture, or performance, or complaints, or threats. Tonight might be about desperate and poorly hidden pleas for attention and support. Any combination of all of those pointless things was valid. Jonathan believed the last of the list was always the case from any perspective when dealing with the younger villain.

Crane felt no need to define which one the man in green had decided on that evening. In the past, Jonathan found diversion at these times by lifting a thesaurus from a nearby shelf and not-so-surreptitiously leafing through the pages as Edward spewed his nonsense. Ignoring the words beyond the general idea and important phrases, he used Nygma's tone and body language to assign a title to each of the man's self-important cries for attention.

The 'retired' professor didn't need the thesaurus, of course. He did, however, enjoy the idea of Edward turning purple with rage when he noticed his audience wasn't paying attention. Edward seeing exactly how Jonathan had been spending the time while ignoring him was also amusing. Edward never had noticed, unfortunately. Jonathan wasn't surprised by that at this point. Edward Nygma wasn't one to imagine others could be unmoved while he was busy hearing his own brilliant voice.

Joker, though, was a very different sort. Indeed, he loved his own voice, but Jonathan bet every ounce of his survival instinct that if he were in close quarters with that demented clown, he would listen carefully. Very, very carefully. He would also be watching closely for any twitch or expression that could spell the end of his, admittedly miserable, existence. Miserable it may be, but it was his, and he'd prefer to keep it.

Jonathan wasn't afraid. That wouldn't make sense. He merely imagined it would be... distasteful, at the least, to have his throat cut for inattention. It was especially distasteful, Jonathan thought, because there was a very good chance that the Joker would continue to talk to Jonathan's corpse as if it were animate.

Harley... While she considered herself Jonathan's friend, he knew the child would never try to stop the mad man of her dreams from killing him. The idea was laughable. He doubted it would cross her mind.

In light of all that, the purveyor of fear could easily see that Edward's ideations of vengeance were insane; in the bad way. In the very bad way. In the I-heard-the-Riddler-was-flayed-by-the-Joker-with-a -spork-before-having-his-head-hung-on-the-wall way. Edward should have been more afraid than angry; if anyone knew the right time to begin worrying, it was Crane. Not that Crane worried; he logically understood the danger of certain individuals displaying certain behavior. It was the benefit of being a brilliant man and an expert of the mind, that was all.

After catching up with Edward's frantic one-sided conversation, what Jonathan had mostly heard was his friend repeating the word 'suicide' in an avalanche of violent curses and ridiculous half-plans. Jonathan had heard many of those before. True, he usually barely listened (perhaps even nearly _half-listened_ when the Riddler had a few drinks in him, and might spill something worth hearing). Yes, normally, his friend's manic frenzy would have amused the psychologist, but that was neither here nor there. At present, he was waiting for the histrionic Riddler to calm down.

Edward, for his own part, had stopped speaking immediately upon hearing the older man's voice. Jon had interrupted him. Interrupted. Him. The Riddler. The most intelligent man alive, by his own admission (or declaration, depending on the viewpoint). He nearly tripped mid-stride as his legs seemed to lock, stopping his movement of their own accord.

"Sit. Down." It was time again, Scarecrow decided, to teach.

Oh. Edward knew that tone. That tone was dangerous. That tone was the sound of a rattlesnake's tail as it was deciding if it should strike. He knew the voice was closer to Scarecrow's than it was to Jon's. There wasn't actually a separation between his individual 'selves' that Edward could see, but Jonathan seemed to don more of a mantle of careless cruelty when slipping into 'Scarecrow'. Jonathan-as-usual was bad enough, but when he got like _that_... science flew out the window.

At the same time, he couldn't hear Scarecrow's trademark malice, and it was the air of calm that actually scared Edward. He heard no annoyance or wry amusement. He didn't even hear Jon's usual condescension. When spoken in that manner, Crane's words allowed no argument. 'Well,' Edward silently amended, 'no argument from those who don't want to end up in a swirling mass of their own personal Hell. I'm certain I am in that category.' To be honest, Edward embodied the definition of that category.

Wide eyed, the Riddler sat. Why was he responding to the command almost automatically, like a trained animal? His irritation rose further at the idea. Oh, he'd listen, but that didn't mean he had to like it. If he had been angry before, now he was incensed. Incensed, but careful. He was, after all, a survivalist.

Jonathan looked at Edward for an indefinite period of time. His eyes, he knew, would be unreadable to the younger man. 'This moment,' he silently decided, 'requires absolute attention.' He was sitting between his friend and what he believed was absolutely certain death. It was, again, hardly a new idea. All the same... This was the first time he had made a stand between 'Edward Nygma' and 'The Riddler.'

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say he would stand between the man's genuinely bright _mind_ and his skillfully crafted, but oh-so-fragile, _ego_, so to speak. This required something new. No matter, Crane thought; it wasn't as though he couldn't manipulate on short notice. He only needed to use Edward's logic against him, and begin the ball rolling so that Nygma's own mind would easily fill in scenarios to torture him with self-doubt. The Riddler certainly made that part easy enough. He would simply give him a puzzle, satisfy his ego, and then crush it. Child's play, really; it all came down to the beautiful science of **fear**. Everything always did, after all.

Now, he only had to use the facts at hand and think of a puzzle with a believable solution. He quickly decided to switch from his usual tactics, and use the truth (or at least a version of such). That always threw people for a loop.

Meanwhile, Edward stared straight back into Jonathan's eyes, and quickly realized that there was fire in the gaze. _This_ was not his friend. This was not Jon. This was _Doctor Crane_. Doctor Crane demanded respect and obedience. Doctor Crane was the knife's edge that kept the man in front of him tipping between 'Jonathan' and 'Scarecrow.' Doctor Crane was a clinical, calculated, and very, very fragile state. Increasingly fragile as time passed, Edward had noted. A false move or word on Edward's part at this point could easily tip the scale, and he had no desire to rock the boat. 'Damn,' he thought absently, among his concerns, 'I hate when my mind mixes metaphors.'

Crane's expressionless, _analytical_ stare was beginning to unnerve the other man. 'Well, of course it does,' Edward seethed, 'That's his _modus operandi_, isn't it?'

After only a few moments, Jonathan seemed to find the answer for which he had been searching. His eyes closing, as though weary, and Jonathan removed his glasses. He began to unconsciously rub the space between his eyes. Crane didn't have a migraine yet, but he was certainly anticipating one before the evening was out.

"Edward," he repeated, frustrated exhaustion in his voice, as he looked back up to meet the other man's eyes. "This is the stupidest thing you have ever come up with. You've been told your ego will get you killed, it's obvious to even the pitiful waste of space they call 'Doctors' in Arkham. I've told you the same. I think you believe it will, as well, one day. If you go through with this, _that day_ will come about before the end of the month."

Edward stared at Jonathan, clearly affronted. Twice now, he realized, his friend purposely jabbed him - in hurty places, not funny places. He was expecting barbed insults, some insinuations about his capability, a bit of cruel mockery; the usual things one simply brushed off in order to have any kind of conversation with Crane. What caught Edward off guard was that Jonathan not only said his plan was stupid (something they had a bit of an unspoken agreement about; everyone knew that was the very first item on the previously mentioned Giant List of Offenses), but that Crane seemed to absolutely believe what he was saying.

Edward found his intense anger cooling. It was cooling to the point of a completely different level of fury; absolute zero. That wasn't his happy place.

... ... ...

A heads up is only fair on this; I don't actually plan on the Joker ever making an appearance in this story, as much as they talk about him. I find myself at a loss to even begin writing him. I respect the character (interesting trivia; in the comic books, Joker is the only character to break the fourth wall and speak directly to the readers. He also whistles his own theme song in The Animated Series. It's as though they're writing it all to show you he knows exactly what he is, and I find that fascinating) and feel that others are better equipped to write him than I am. Crane sort of lives in my head, and I have studied psychology, spent weeks at in-patient psych care facilities, etc., so he's almost easy in comparison.

Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Scarecrow's Note; I'm not letting the author in on this one, she's blabbered enough. *mutter* Worse than Tetch... This chapter is about my expertise. Read and learn, children.**_ But remember, nothing can be what it seems, and if you lock your door tonight, you _still_ have to survive the monsters in the closet and under your bed! There's no escape. Did that shadow just _****mo****ve_? Safety is a fairy tale your parents convinced you was true, an illusion. You know I'm right, don't you? ...Hush! Do you hear that? Listen! Is the pounding coming from the floorboards, or are the rats in your walls a bit clumsy from rabies? Oh, I'm sure it's nothing. Nothing at all..._**

AN; Damn it, Crane! *shoves him back in his box* sorry about... That. Anyway, I know this chapter completely flies in the face of everything we see in the Arkham video game continuity. That's why it isn't posted there, probably. Also, keep in mind, none of it is coming for anywhere but Jonathan's head, and as stated, may or may not be what he really thinks.

... ... ...

Jonathan simply watched the other man as he waited for Nygma to go through his amusingly predictable cascade of reactions. He knew when Edward finished, he'd ask the question. He was not disappointed.

"What, exactly, do you mean by that?" the Riddler's voice was completely flat, lacking any emphasis. His mouth was set in a straight line - not pressed, simply set, and his eyes seemed to flash like glass, although he had never moved them from the man across the table.

"I mean what I said. If you kill the Joker, you're a dead man."

"You're not making any sense, and not in the whole creepy grown-man-reciting-nursery-rhymes way, even. I can figure that stuff out well enough. But, you're just way off-base here. Everyone despises that man- no! That... Thing! I bet his henches would even send 'thank you' cards. What are you on about?"

Crane gave the insult no notice, knowing Edward was trying to turn the tables and get a rise out of him. That wouldn't work on the professor. "To answer that, I'm going to need you to answer some questions of my own first. Do you, truly and honestly, plan to kill the Joker?" Jonathan asked, but no longer with eerie calm. His posture seemed to be weighed down by decades of exhaustion. He sounded as though his words always went unheeded and his explanations had been repeated several hundred times.

He sounded... _precisely_ like a teacher.

"Yes," answered the Riddler immediately, determination set in every inch of his demeanor.

"Do you believe that you are capable of killing the Joker?" This time, Crane's voice held a bit of the usual mockery that Edward found familiar. He bristled, then wondered if that was another trained response to the man in front of him. He didn't like it, regardless.

"I can. I can and I will. Did you even hear me? This. Is. Brilliant. This _will work_, this will finally work, and he'll be gone, and I'll be almost as happy as I would be if it were the Bat."

This was the opening Jonathan wanted. "Fine, let's_ imagine_ you can," he replied with derision. He spoke slowly as his most logical professor persona unconsciously slid into place like a tweed jacket. "In the scenario you've given, theoretically, I didn't hear one of the most important parts of your plan. What method do you believe you would use in order to kill Harleen _first_?"

Edward gaped at him for a long moment, anger turning to mild confusion. "I don't need to kill _Harley_, she's not even with the Joker right now."

"True," Crane replied, "she isn't. She's temporarily staying with Pamela, is she not?" Edward gave a sharp nod and glared at Jonathan suspiciously, but for once, said nothing. "Yes. Let's say your plan works. You manage to capture, keep, and kill the Joker. Something which, if I may remind you, not even Batman has ever managed. We'll _say_ Joker follows the logic you _expect_ him to follow, and does what you believe he will do... Though he _won't_, for the record. Unpredictability is the only thing predictable about the Joker. But we'll say he does. Given how quickly the word moves underground, I assume Harley will be almost immediately informed of the death of her," here he paused with a moue of distaste, "Puddin'. She'll most likely know before you even have the chance to announce it with your usual... flair."

Jonathan held up a hand before Edward could respond. He picked up a pencil and an old envelope from his unfortunate host's junk mail. He began to sketch out a graph. Edward quickly deduced Crane was creating a depiction of how the Rogues of Gotham interacted, as well as the Bat, adding a few important non-Rogue individuals. He added arrows, X's, and lines between the circles, working as efficiently as Edward ever had with a crossword from the paper.

As Edward watched Jonathan draw their city's interactions as a social network, he had to agree that it was a fairly accurate representation of which people in the underground would willingly speak with one another. He still didn't see the point of it, assuring himself that if there was a salient point, he would certainly have already seen it. Nor did he want to sit around watching Jon sketch, for that matter. He had places to go and clowns to kill.

"I'll make this easy for you, Nygma. I've changed it from an exercise in psychology, which involves thinking of others - not your forte - to something that suits you better. Now, how many people here do _you_ see who would be happy to see the Joker's dead body?"

Edward quickly glanced over the diagram. "Pretty much all of them. I can't think of anybody he hasn't screwed over at least once; he's a danger to all of us. I, personally, think he's a danger to the universe itself, in some way. His existence has to break some law of something or other. It's not possible for one man to be that much of a nuisance," the Riddler shrugged.

Crane was used to, and occasionally even enjoyed, Edward's off-topic musings. Right now, though, he was determined to stay on track. "Indeed, except for one obvious exclusion, most would not mind. Now, how many people do you see that you agree would be likely to interact with Harley - affectionately, somewhat amiably, or with basic tolerance?" For most Rogues, basic tolerance was an expression of amiability, after all.

Edward looked again, and the pieces were beginning to click into place. "Almost all of them."

Jonathan gave him a mocking smile. "Very good, Eddie." Ignoring the other man's growl, he continued, "Right. So, we can assume that it's a given that when Harley hears rumors that the Joker has been killed, she will investigate those rumors immediately, no matter what she has to drop and regardless of why she is currently separated from him."

Edward frowned, leaning back in his chair and pushing away the already memorized chart. "It's not that I want to hurt Harley. Even you connected both of us to her as people willing to tolerate her."

"Irrelevant, Edward. Think! Why does the Joker keep Harley around? Why does he moderately encourage her affections despite his annoyance with her? We know why she loves _him_ - she's completely off her rocker and apparently _blind_ - but why does the Joker need _her_?"

Edward blushed. When he replied, he actually stammered, which Crane could appreciate the humor of even in his serious mood. "I... well, I always found that to be... fairly obvious."

Crane let out a chuckle. Edward was appropriately disturbed by the sound.

"No," said Jonathan, "that may be a perk, but it's not why he needs her. She is... his human shield. Sometimes literally, in the physical sense," he sounded a bit angry at the idea, the Riddler noted, as Crane continued, "but she also acts as an _emotional_ human shield."

Edward simply arched an eyebrow, and Jonathan heaved an irritated sigh at his friend's confusion. As socially dense as Crane could be, this was a dynamic that even he realized years ago. "Hypothetically, if you were to kill Harley, the Joker would probably kill you, but not out of love. It would be more like... a child being angry over a broken toy, in a way. However, he is easily distracted at times, in the short term. None of his goals circle around the girl... Not that I'm entirely clear on what exactly his goals _ever do_ circle around, other than Batman," he added wryly. "Something _shiny_ might even catch his fancy, pulling his attention from his revenge just long enough for you to hide. On the other hand, for Harley, the Joker is her _raison d'être_. She's not herself without him; at least not a self she remembers."

Edward gave a short nod to show that he was following. He was getting impatient, but he was following.

Jonathan had no wish whatsoever to kill Harley. That did not mean that he was above discussing a hypothetical idea of her death. This was Gotham, after all.

"This is something I thought was understood by the entire underground; a sort unwritten rule. You can't safely kill _him_, _unless you kill her first_."

Edward managed to sputter out a sound that was very similar to the word, "Why?" Given time, he'd be able to figure out the issue, Jonathan knew. At the moment, however, he did not necessarily want Nygma thinking for himself. Professor Crane would walk him through the concept.

"She would show you no mercy, Edward. Harley would pull you straight out of Hell because she could do a more efficient job of torturing you than the demons. _If_, that is, you could ever manage to kill her... _Mistah J!"_ he said, using an alarmingly accurate impersonation of the girl's high-pitched voice and accent.

"She will learn of his death, and she will react. She will have lost her only meaning in life, in her sadly twisted mind," Cranes mouth pulled down at the corners at this. Edward knew that the Scarecrow and Harley were friends, of a sort, so he didn't comment. After a moment, Jonathan continued, "When that happens, I assure you, she will find a new one. What do you think that new goal will be? Hmm?" He steepled his almost unnaturally long fingers in front of him, resting his elbows on the table, and watched Edward intently.

Edward rolled his eyes at the simplicity of the question. "His killer. _Me_. I get it, Jon, she's going to come after _me_. As much as I don't actively desire to harm Harley, possible collateral damage will not stop me in this. A girl in face paint certainly won't stop me in this. The clown has to die. I_ can _handle her."

Jonathan barked out a short, mirthless laugh, scoffing, "Okay, let's say you _could_ handle Harleen, in her pure blind rage and grief. Personally, I have doubts of you besting the child on a good day, but that's a debate for another evening. That aside, consider this; she wouldn't be alone. You are forgetting the point," he held up the envelope between two long fingers, the graph demanding Edward's attention. "Do you think she won't seek out comfort from her 'friends?' Do you think she won't have many shoulders to cry on? I'd bet even Croc would be willing to try to comfort her, seeing as he will be able to hear her wails from the sewers. Cobblepot would give her - well, _loan_ I should say - anything reasonable if she asked - weapons, chemicals, vehicles, information..."

Jonathan paused, eyes rolling up to look to the ceiling, as if for help with his explaination. The ceiling had nothing to say about the subject. Jonathan trudged on alone. "It's evolution. It's culture. It's the way humans _are_. Don't you see? Very rarely do humans leave a beautiful, victimized, sobbing woman sitting alone. Not even strangers. Most people aren't like... us. Even if she did not try to kill you, others may try, just from seeing her in that state. Of course, that's irrelevant, since she _would_ kill you.

"More to my point, the child has always been a sad story, Edward. A pitiable character in this game, but an important one that you have not even taken note of in your _plan_. It's not really that hard to imagine the sentiment which she already engenders amplified by Joker's death, is it? Ivy would be on her side simply out of habit, Fries is ridiculously easy to manipulate with this type of grief, even Jervis would likely call her 'Alice' and revert to type while designing a chip that would fry your higher reasoning to the point where you'd be sitting in Arkham in a puddle of your own drool!"

Edward snorted at the psychologist, clearly disbelieving such a thing was possible. Irritatingly, he was beginning to see a certain logic in Crane's words, in spite of himself.

Jonathan's hands flew to the air beside his head in a gesture of annoyance as his speech quickened. His voice raised slightly in frustration at Edward's willful blindness. "If you kill the man, you destroy the woman. If you destroy the woman, she will be insane with grief. She will be all over Gotham _hunting_ you, all the while sniffling out her version of a story of loss and love, and," he took a breath, "and her hatred of you. It will continue until every last person simply shrugs and agrees to help her kill you out of affection, annoyance, pity, or... for _fun_, Nygma, _because they can_. You know the people we're dealing with! I estimate it might take as much as three days, and that's a generous estimate. The entire city will be your judge, jury, and executioner!"

Edward shook his head defiantly, unwilling to release his grip on what he knew was a masterful plot. "They would not. They would give me a damned parade for getting rid of the Joker! Harley has her resources, real or _hypothetical_, but I have the plan. I can easily think of one to eliminate Harley from the equation. She's not going to pester and whine someone into destroying me!"

At this, Jonathan sighed, almost wistfully, and sat back in his chair. He looked at Edward with something that could be pity, if the Scarecrow were capable of pity.

He wasn't.

... ... ...

SN; **_At least _one_ thing's been written right. Pity doesn't suit me. Stay tuned for some soul crushing for The Leprechaun Boy and my idea of a good time. Whenever her royal uselessness _deigns_ to get around to it, that is._**

AN; Crane, stop bothering people and get back in my subconscious where you belong! I can still change the next chapter, you lanky blighter!

**_Why aren't you begging pathetically for reviews? A sudden burst of _****_Allodoxaphobia? Why do you keep writing? Is it because you're a housewife? You dislike children. I think we both know it's _****_Athazagoraphobia, you'll feel better if you stop lying to yourself._**

I'd actually like it very much if you would conveniently forget me, 'Crow. I get it. I'm not letting you be sadistic enough in this story. Roger. Back in your cage!

...Yeesh. Um, you get used to him? No worries.

Okay, fine, I worry a _little_. *glances around nervously, sees nothing*

Right. Anyway, I'm sure many of you disagree with the theory, which is fine. It's a... tool, I guess, that he's using to frighten Edward at this specific time, not something that's meant to stand alone, exactly. Next chapter, it's more personal, he's getting ready for the kill, so to speak. Probably not literally. I won't let the mean man hurt my little Eddie Nygmakins. (A petulant voice is heard shouting from the distance; "Oh, good Lord! I hate you, you know!") I know, Eddums, I know... ("I'm not talking to you!") Ha! That, kids, is how you manage it... Anyway, stay tuned!


	4. Chapter 4

AN; One of the reasons I decided to write this story is my belief that as sadistic as Crane can be, he's not actually psychopathic in the real clinical sense. He's just, literally, one of the most unlucky people on the planet, and that is going to end up manifesting as a disturbed personality. To be born into his circumstances, raised by a crazy ancient woman who used and abuse him, who also apparently had a chapel full of the world's stupidest corvids (honestly, crows and ravens are extremely intelligent animals - the can not only solve logic puzzles, but also remember an individual human's face years after they have seen them), the only explanation for which I think is that nutty bible thumping granny is some kind of rat blood witch bird hypnotist... It's all just so ridiculously unlucky. When I set out to rewrite this story I wanted to add as much fun for straw-man as I could, really. As I like to say, I have sympathy for the devil, just none for the idiot who believes him! Not that I mean Eddie is an idiot. He's not. It's just a metaphor. Anyway, enjoy!

... ... ...

"Look again, Edward," Jonathan said as he slid the envelope back across the table, preparing himself for the kill. "How many people on that graph would truly, honestly mourn your death?" He waited patiently, his expression trained and deadly serious. Edward did not immediately reply. Cold realization drained the color from his complexion as certain ideas were finally beginning to settle in his mind.

His ego did not like that. Not one bit.

He pondered on the situation for a long moment. Scarecrow stared on. Edward was, in all reality (a reality that Crane would never admit under torture, of course), a genius. He was a narcissist, but he could solve the puzzle Jonathan had given him.

Finally, Edward heard his own voice hesitantly declare, "I get along with people." ...Oh, Lord, that was weak. He winced, knowing it sounded ridiculous, pathetic, even to his own ears.

Jonathan leaned forward, half out of his chair, with his thin hands pressed against the table. "You see it, then. This is the life we have chosen, Nygma. There. Is. No. Gratitude. Here. Not for killing the clown, not for brilliance, not for help, not for _anything_. Especially not from, _or for_, our 'colleagues,'" he ground out, practically spitting the ridiculous word. As though they had equals, _colleagues_. He shook his head slightly and gathered himself together.

It was now the endgame.

"No, Edward. We don't deal in gratitude, not one of us. There are occasional favors. There are trades, negotiations, and bargains. There is tit for tat and only that, or you'll be run over roughshod. If you kill the Joker, and_ that __**If**__ is the most enormous __**If **__ever said_, then you'll be no more useful to anyone for it. He will be dead. It takes him out of the picture. What's left is Harley, and then you.

"Look at the graph, Edward! How many? How many people would help you? In the face of a sick, grief-stricken young woman, beautiful and betrayed, batting her eyes between tears, how many would choose _you_? How many do you think would kill you simply because it would be something to do? Not only them, either. You'll not only have the entire underworld after you, but the rooftops aren't exactly safe for you to cower on, you know, with Selina, the Bat, Birdboy... Damn it, Edward, you can't be this obtuse! _Not a single one of us isn't utterly disposable_!"

Jonathan slammed a fist against the table as he left his chair. He finally took his eyes off Edward's stricken face as piles of documents tipped onto the floor. His legs lead him in a pace that was ironically similar to Edward's earlier steps, just as his voice had been equally manic as the green-suited villain's had been at the start of the confrontation.

Edward ignored the movements of the gangly man, his eyes fixed on a random bit of torn wallpaper. Pathetic. He was pathetic. He lived in a world where old acquaintances would be after his head for killing the most annoying man alive (other than the Bat, if that even needed to be said). Jonathan was right. If it was someone else, if Dent or Ivy or... anyone but Jonathan or Jervis, really... maybe not Selina, but... if Harley asked him for help to hurt them, with a good reason, he'd agree. He'd do as little as possible while keeping face, but he'd agree. Harley could be a fairly decent informant when she paid attention, after all. If he killed the Joker, they'd kill him. It was _sport_. His thoughts began to blur.

_They didn't care. No one. Not special, not the them.. he wasn't... wasn't... not… but... but, he... _

Jonathan looked across the room, at one of his _very_ few friends, and paused. How could Nygma have honestly looked for acceptance and warm regard in the villains of this thrice damned city? The truth of the matter was, however, Jonathan knew. He knew exactly what Edward had been denied throughout his life.

Neither of them had ever stood a chance, had they?

Crane forced himself to breathe slowly, calming his mind. He had just verbally eviscerated the man still frozen at his table. It was for his own good. Well, mostly for his own good... alright, partially for his own good. But, Edward most assuredly did not look well, for all the good that had been done. He appeared about to faint.

The Scarecrow was nearly sorry him.

He wasn't, obviously, but he_ almost_ was.

He didn't regret it, either. He had learned long ago that guilt was the most pointless of all emotions. He felt a slight, queasy lurch somewhere near his stomach, however, when Edward leaned forward to rest his head in his hands. Crane brushed off the sensation. Well, if he had finally got his point across, he would have to move on to comforting. At least some twisted version of comforting. It wasn't his strong point.

It seemed like the the proper routine, after telling a man the world would be indifferent to his death. Jonathan had always known that for himself; he'd been reminded of it continually since he was a toddler. Edward... He lived and breathed to prove his own worth. Striding to the kitchen, Scarecrow opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of cheap whiskey and two chipped cups. Home-warming gifts from his subject, he decided with a smirk.

He sighed (for what must have been the hundredth time that evening, he thought) as he came out of the kitchen; Edward had started shaking. It would be a long night.

Truly, though, he had been given no choice. He didn't _actually_ have any idea about what Harley would do if the Joker were to be killed, or what the rest of Gotham would do in reaction to her - he only attempted to keep both Edward and the girl safe. At least, as safe as he could without ham-handedly interfering with Joker (his affection did not translate into a death wish), or letting a soul know about his lingering desire to protect Harley. Gotham was rather short on even shaky allies. It wasn't much, but it was the best he could do for the child, he supposed. He had resigned himself to her choice, her _madness_, a very long time ago. His life was not meant for involvement in frivolous games; he had a true purpose. He would not deny Harleen what she believed to be her own purpose. He hadn't really lied, however, either.

His past had taught him quite well, and he internally wondered if her bruises and delusions weren't preferable to his own state. If she believed she loved, he could do nothing to change her mind. Heaven (not that Jonathan believed in such a place) knew he had tried. Love was naturally a delusion, but her obsession went beyond the natural. Those days had passed, and she was what she was... and he was becoming a maudlin old man. He certainly did not want her showing up on his door step, sobbing out, "Professahhhh!" and imagining he would be capable of helping her.

He took a deep breath and forced himself back to the present. But wait... What was...? He smelled a very faint chemical odor; faint, yes, but also familiar.

Then he saw it. On the floor, next to the Riddler's chair, was a cracked glass vial.

Edward's sudden breakdown _had_ seemed a bit strange, but Jonathan had assumed it was simply the egomaniac's mind catching up to willfully ignored (and skillfully fabricated, he congratulated himself) facts. He now remembered with clarity his hand coming down on the table forcefully before he began to pace, some distance away from the overturned mess. The vial must have cracked at some point as it rolled off the uneven surface.

How ridiculously clumsy. If this toxin were as strong as he suspected, the fumes alone could indeed have brought Edward to his current state. He quickly set the whiskey and cups down on a stack of books, and turned to his bedroom to get the antidote.

He stopped. Looking over at Nygma, and observing that the man's shaking had turned to sobs and muttering, his... well, his_ scientific mind_, of course... couldn't pass this up. After all, it wasn't as though he had intentionally dosed the Riddler.

He smiled to himself. He had been trying to help, hadn't he? Oh, the irony. Leaning back down, he picked up the bottle of whiskey and only one cup, and poured himself a heavy measure. Holding his breath for a moment - a simple automatic precaution, he didn't grab his mask; he had lost any notable reaction to concentrated doses of his creation years ago - he ventured over to the makeshift desk to gather his notebook and pen.

He deftly reached down and picked up the leaking vial, shielding his skin with a slip of paper as he handled the object, and set it back on the desk in front of Nygma. The younger man did not even register Jonathan's existence. Settling himself in a chair across the room, he faced his friend, and began to take notes. If the current batch were too potent to inject directly, perhaps it had potential as another airborne weapon that was slightly different than the compressed fear-gas he currently favored...

"Please, no, no I didn't, I didn't lie. I didn't lie!" Edward had begun to hallucinate. Interesting. The subject matter was well known to Crane, of course, but he hoped in a little while the exposure would bring about a new topic.

He had, after all, been needing a healthier subject, hadn't he? Perhaps this was a gift in return for saving Edward's sorry hide. Jonathan absolutely did not believe in a higher power, much less one that sent him gifts, but that didn't factor at the moment. He took a drink and sighed again, this time contentedly.

"Yes, you did! You cheated and you lied!" he responded with an anger in his voice he didn't really feel. With sadistic glee, he moved his pen across the page as he observed his friend's renewed sobs and denials.

Much more cheerful now, he thought once again, it was going to be a long night.

... ... ...

What are friends for, after all? It's a bit sketchy among the Rogue Gallery... Anyway, that's the last bit I have for this story, but don't imagine Eddie takes this lightly or complacently when he comes around. I don't really have a problem writing Crane thinking about someone as a friend, then doing something like this under the idea that they should have known better than to come to him in the first place. Thank you all so much for reading and giving me your thoughts!


End file.
